Sane and Satisfactory
by Rizzle
Summary: Two enemies find themselves thrown together in a situation neither of them could have predicted. My (once lost, but now found) entry for Dramione Remix 2011 (Anakin/Padme).
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:**

So a reader messaged me today to ask about my missing D/Hr Remix fic. I was like, "What fic?" and then I _remembered_. I haven't written nearly that much D/Hr that it warrants my _completely forgetting_ about a 12,000-word story. But this is exactly what happened. Anyway, it belongs with its brothers and sisters here on FFnet, and so here it is. To the reader who requested it, thank you again for your kind words and I hope you still find the same merits in your more recent reading of this story.

* * *

**Title:** Sane and Satisfactory (originally written for Dramione Remix 2011)

**Author/Artist:** Rizzle

**Original Couple/Prompt:** Anakin/ Padmé

**Disclaimer:** This work is intended to be a transformative commentary on the original. No copyright infringement is intended; no profit is being made from this work.

**Rating:** R (for adult themes)

**Word Count:** ~12k

**Warnings:** AU/Alternate Reality, main character death

**Summary:** Two enemies find themselves thrown together in a situation neither of them could have predicted.

**Notes:** I wasn't exactly sure how to incorporate the Anakin/Padmé prompt into a D/Hr story, but I knew from the beginning that it was going to have to be an epic and ultimately tragic love affair. The similarities to Anakin and Padmé's story within the Star Wars saga are mostly technical, but there are some parallel themes as they relate to Hermione's character, Draco's responsibilities to Voldemort, and his belief in the power and entitlement of Purebloods. The title of this fanfic and the line spoken by the woman that Draco kills is from a quote by the philosopher and humanist, Erich Seligmann Fromm.

* * *

Hermione sipped at her cup of tea, put it back in her saucer and then, with a small smile, carefully balanced it on her enormous abdomen. She took two large breaths and watched the cup rise and then fall. If she left it there long enough, the tea cup would eventually jiggle in its saucer, as one of the babies (or both, perhaps?), practiced in-utero calisthenics.

Large pregnant bellies were good for all sorts of things. In addition to being great stable tables, they were also a handy platform for folding tiny onesies, for getting a seat on the bus, and for making their owners the recipient of all manner of pre and post-natal advice from well-meaning strangers. The last one wasn't so much handy as slightly annoying. Everyone had wisdom to dispense. It was as if being Hermione Granger counted for nothing. She was just another unmarried witch suffering from an Oh Dear.

Make that a set of _double _Oh Dears.

She'd actually fainted when the Mediwitch told her she was expecting twins. It'd been a dead faint and if it hadn't been for Harry's reflexes, she'd have kissed the clinic's green laminate flooring and probably knocked out a few teeth.

Poor, sweet Harry. He'd made all sorts of promises to her the week they'd lost Ron. And he'd stuck to them, too. He would be there for the babies, he'd said. She'd want for nothing. He'd patted her hand all through the clinic check-up, repeating the mantra, "It's going to be alright."

Harry Potter didn't know how to fail at anything.

She'd thanked him. She'd cried and hugged him. All she knew how to do in her first trimester, seemingly, was _weep_. It was the damned hormones. People were more than sympathetic. For Hermione, arguably, there was a lot to cry about. There was the war and the untimely death of her childhood sweetheart. If the public knew she was also pregnant… Well, her sympathy cup would runneth over.

The war was an all-consuming worry. It was the dark cloud that sucked all the unmitigated happiness from a room. It was evil and unnecessary and not a night went by that Hermione didn't wish Voldemort would just die in his sleep and save both sides more lives lost.

Hermione wept for Ron, who was brave, kind, and should have lived to a hundred and twenty at least, with grandchildren piled up to the Burrow's lopsided ceiling. It didn't matter that they hadn't been in love. Ron knew who the real father was, of course. Harry was the first person she told, and he had handled the news with his usual grace. She'd told Ron soon after and he'd judged her. Fair enough. She certainly judged herself. He'd forgiven her. Hermione would have preferred his understanding too, but he was only human.

And then he'd proposed.

She had politely declined, because she didn't need a husband to assist her.

She needed friends.


	2. Chapter 2

The two wizards walked through the hedge-maze that stood in place of the grand manor's fine, manicured gardens. The final task of the Triwizard tournament had provided the inspiration for the macabre surrounds. Where there had once been velvety English rose banks and herbaceous borders, there were now dark, twisted yew and holly hedges that encircled the fortress like a malevolent moat. It made for an excellent defence against intruders, and when the need arose, it also provided a reason for a stroll.

"I sense you are troubled, General," said the Master, after many minutes of silence.

The younger man did not immediately respond. He collected any errant thoughts, checked stubborn tendrils of emotion and then chose his reply very, _very _carefully. "I am concerned by this latest course of action."

Their pace through the maze was leisurely. The wizards walked unmolested through traps and amongst creatures that would have been at home in a waxwork house of mythological horrors.

"Ah. You refer to my campaign to exterminate all that Potter holds dear?"

"I do."

"Remember why I have raised you to this position. There are times when I have need of mindless sycophants. This is not that time and you are not your father. Speak your mind."

The General did not hesitate. His passions were contained within a tightly-sealed vault that had proved to be impressively impervious to Legilimency. However, for the purposes of believable authenticity, he peeled back the layer on that seal, ever so slightly. "Given our limited resources, would it not be wiser to focus simply on Potter instead? We should face him, my Lord, here and now, and destroy him. Eliminating every member of his support network is dangerous, time-consuming, and risks exposing you in your current weakened state."

The Dark Lord smiled. Or rather it was what passed for a smile on a face more reptilian than man. "And you think we have it within our means to end him now, do you?"

The General was emphatic. "_Yes_."

The smile vanished. "We would lose. You would die. You are a great wizard, and under my tutelage, perhaps you will be one of the greatest. But Harry Potter is stronger than you. Laid low as I am now , he surpasses even me. It has taken me a journey to the point of near oblivion to discover that young man's secret. And rest assured I will end him with it."

"What secret is this, my Lord?" the General asked.

Voldemort spat out the word, as if that one syllable was anathema to him. "Love."

The General was exceptionally intelligent. He'd finished near top of his class at Hogwarts, and as such, implicitly understood what his master was alluding to. "The secret to Harry Potter's power is in the many who love him," he surmised. "If we take that away, he becomes less than he is. That is the key to defeating him."

"You do not disappoint, Draco."

They had reached the end of the maze. The thick hedge walls shifted behind them, re-arranging the area into yet another permutation that was impossible to navigate if one did not carry the Dark Mark. Beyond the maze lay the entrance to a fortress. Voldemort paused before a wall of blue, liquid fire. He waved a hand and watched as the boiling, churning waters evaporated, revealing an iron-bolted door.

They entered the manor, and as always, the General took care to gather his control around him like a cloak, such that not even light could penetrate. He did this before asking Voldemort, "And who are we to eliminate first?"

"The first stab should be close enough to the heart, but not fatal," said Voldemort. He turned his cold, penetrating stare to his companion. Looking at Voldemort directly in the eye was akin to being mentally scourged. "With that in mind, I should very much like you to kill Hermione Granger. She escaped from us once, and it is supremely fitting that she should be the first to die. We have already succeeded in ending Ronald Weasley. With this new loss, Potter will be inconsolable."

The General's metaphorical cloak of control parted, ever so slightly, but the Dark Lord had looked away, occupied with grand plans that were assembling in his mind. As such, he was distracted and did not notice the lapse.

"It will also be fitting that you will be the one to cut out her heart and deliver it to Potter," Voldemort continued. "Do you understand?"

Draco responded with the same thing he always said to his master, as his father had done before him. He bowed his head. "I live to serve you, my Lord."


	3. Chapter 3

_Three years earlier_

He kept her in the remains of a dilapidated castle. It could have been located anywhere, but she was confident they were still in the UK. The air smelled familiar enough to convince Hermione of that. The weather was much the same, too.

Like Rapunzel, her room was at the top of a tower. Unlike Rapunzel's tower, however, there were stairs, but they were located behind a thick door reinforced with wards. Hermione doubted she could open it even with the benefit of an axe and an enthusiastic fairy-tale woodsman.

There was a long, narrow window in the circular room. Barred, of course. The room had been precisely refurbished to serve its purpose as a self-contained cell. There was a screened bathroom with a bath tub and a flushing toilet. The plumbing was magical. At night, it hummed softly. There was no electricity, only candles and matches. These were replaced every week along with clothing and basic toiletries.

Hermione searched every single centimetre of the cell for something, _anything_ she could use to aid in her escape. Something sharp, light and concealable. Or blunt and heavy. A bit of wire. Some string. A combination of items to make a lever to pry the window bars loose. She looked for shards of broken stone. She tried screaming out the window in the hopes that a nearby farm or village would somehow hear her cries, carried on the wind. She wrote messages using burnt match heads and scraps of clothing, tossing them out through the window.

Nothing worked. And when nothing worked after many weeks of trying, she sat on her bed, with her head in her hands and thought and thought until it felt like her brain had liquefied and was oozing out through her ears. There was simply no escape from the tower.

She did succeed in slicing Malfoy across the chest with a jagged slice of stone one time, but that certainly hadn't led to escape. Not the kind she longed for and not even the other kind that was always the dark, hovering option of every prisoner.

"Why are you doing this? What do you want!" she endlessly screamed and ranted at him.

He always wore gloves when handling her, even in the warmer months. He never spoke unless it was to provide her with instructions or to ask questions. His focus and discipline was unshakeable. Hermione understood, sadly, that Malfoy had become Voldemort's creature through and through. There was no hope, no way out. And perhaps that was why Voldemort had entrusted him to keep her until such time that they enacted their plans for her. She was Draco's major responsibility. A heavy task, she decided, because she was a highly uncooperative prisoner for the most part.

Hermione died in that cell, several times over, reborn into yet more hopelessness. After the first four months of captivity and agonising uncertainty as to her fate at Voldemort's hands, she tried to take back ultimate control by hanging herself, but even that was impossible. There was nothing from which to suspend the makeshift noose she fashioned out of bed linen. Hermione considered going on a hunger strike, or worse yet using the matches to start a fire and that was when she decided that her heart wasn't really into the idea of suicide.

She put those foolish thoughts aside.

And with that realisation, an odd wave of calm overcame her. Perhaps she needed to reach the end of her tether, to realise that there was still a whole heap of fortitude left in her arsenal. Her environment was static. Nothing changed within it, but there was one aspect of her imprisonment that was not constant—her captor. She examined the possibilities.

* * *

For three years, Malfoy was all she saw.

Hermione surmised that it was a calculated move on Voldemort's part; to provide her with the false comfort of a familiar face to whom she could spill her secrets. As it happened, there weren't many government secrets to spill. Hermione was only an occasional soldier, never a commander. She was a politician at the Ministry. Her contribution to the cause was in diplomacy, representation and ideas. She was, however, privy to a great deal of personal information about Ministry officials and allies. Her main value was as a hostage, and for that reason she was not harmed.

So she gave Malfoy information; unwillingly, unfortunately and unfailingly. Unlike Aurors, politicians were not trained to be resistant to Veritaserum. The administering of the potion was an ordeal. Hermione nearly wished Malfoy would use physical force, but he employed _Imperio_ instead, which was much, much worse. Hermione suspected he harboured an aversion to touching her. This was both a relief and oddly, an insult.

Did he truly find her so unclean that the mere brush of skin repulsed him? Was he _that_ committed to Voldemort's ideas?

All her loathing and anger was easily directed at Malfoy. They went through the motions of prisoner and captor. Torture was always threatened, but after many weeks of empty threats, it began to sound like he was reading from a dog-eared script. Unlike in the Muggle world, torture as an interrogation technique was pointless due to the existence of Veritaserum. Torture for sadistic purposes was another matter altogether.

Draco was not a sadist. Even if it might have been his natural inclination, he had neither the time nor the luxury to indulge. He was fulfilling Lucius Malfoy's role as Voldemort's right hand and Hermione suspected he did a far better job than his father ever could have.

Of course, these were very different times and those loyal to the Dark Lord did not maintain that loyalty in secret. They had crossed the line in the sand and had become outcasts. As such, the life that Draco led was not one of status, wealth and privilege. All that had been sacrificed in Voldemort's name. Hermione often wondered if Draco's alleged zeal for Voldemort's fundamentalism was able to survive these very material losses.


	4. Chapter 4

Malfoy was meticulous in his duties. Always regular with her meals and supplies and always well-presented despite the hour. Hermione recalled that he'd been much the same in the classroom. There were two Dracos, she hypothesized. There was the Draco that was required to function in the life he had been born into. And then there was the other one—the one who actually did take his prefect responsibilities seriously, who measured out potions ingredients with painstaking accuracy, who routinely spent time studying in the library until the small hours of the morning because there just were too many distractions at Slytherin House. _That _Malfoy never had much to say to her at all. He'd been too preoccupied making up for time the _other_ Draco wasted.

He was also far from being a fool, and it seemed a sad mystery to Hermione that he would not allow himself to even contemplate an ideology other than the one he had been brought up with.

She wanted to know _why_. He gave her the same reply each time.

"Because you and your kind are a corruption of magic. A blight."

It sounded no less rehearsed than the torture threats.

* * *

The job of Voldemort's right hand apparently involved paperwork.

Occasionally, Malfoy brought the work with him when he saw her. He'd sit at the table and write by candlelight, content to ignore her save for the one time she hit him over the head with an empty dinner dish. That had cost her a week's worth of food and fresh drinking water, as punishment.

One evening, roughly eight months from the day Hermione had been captured, Malfoy sat at the small table and frowned over a stack of parchment. He'd been going at it for roughly four hours before Hermione's fatigue cancelled out her caution, and she fell asleep.

When she opened her eyes some time later, she was alarmed at the darkness. The candles had burnt out. She remained absolutely still and _listened_.

Malfoy was asleep at the table. She could hear his soft, steady breathing. Her heart started pounding. Dear God, here was a real chance at escape. All she had to do was get his wand and she could Disapparate in seconds. She could be home in mere minutes. The trick was to divest him of his wand without waking him.

Hermione knew her cell very well, of course, and it was an easy task to creep soundlessly from the bed. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the small amount of moonlight coming through the narrow window revealed that Malfoy was slumped over on the table, his head resting on his folded arms. From memory, she knew he kept his wand in a holster above his left trouser pocket.

She approached, barefooted and exhilarated, not even daring to breathe.

When she was beside him, she lowered herself into a squatting position, felt for the hem of his robes and then gingerly moved the material aside to permit clear access to the holster. Hermione reached for it in the darkness, wincing inwardly when her fingers brushed against his waist. _Too high_. She tried again and was elated when she felt her thumb and index finger grasp the haft of his wand.

Millimetres at a time, she slid the wand out of the holster until she was holding it in her hands. It seemed a miracle he hadn't awakened from the mad pounding of her heart because she was sure it was echoing through the room.

Utterly euphoric at her success, she rose to her feet and took two steps away from Malfoy. His still, sleeping form was the last thing she remembered seeing before she Disapparated.

* * *

It felt like her skin had been ripped clean off her body. Hermione coughed and spluttered, wondering if she was drowning. Breathing was excruciating. There was an odd taste in her mouth. She realised it was blood, and more still was streaming from her nose and ears. She couldn't see very well, but her hearing had taken over. There was a loud, muffled banging, and the sensation of being jostled.

She whimpered at the pain. It was _hideous_. The jostling stopped and she found her head pressed up against a familiar scent and a woollen cloak. She peeled open her eyes, grimacing at the sticky dried blood that had almost glued her eyelids shut.

Malfoy was staring down at her with a fierce expression.

"_Do not die_," he ordered.

She couldn't summon up a response even if she wanted to. Presently, a door opened and she heard a thin, wheezy voice speak. "What in the name of Merlin? What have you brought me, young man?"

"You will save her, Tiberius. _Now_."

"I do not assist your kind, Death Eater! Be gone and be thankful I do not call the Night Watch. I need not remind you that there is an Auror Patrol Post on this very street!"

Malfoy stepped forward, close enough that Hermione could feel the other man's breath graze her cheek. "Listen to me, you old fraud. This is Hermione _fucking _Granger, and if she dies, it will be either my Master who ends the pair of us, or I swear to you that Harry Potter will hear of the fact that you let her bleed to death on your doorstep."

As if planned, Hermione coughed into Malfoy's chest, gurgling out more blood. She was having acute trouble breathing as her lungs were refusing to inflate properly.

"Get inside, then," barked the man called Tiberius. He made a tut-tut noise. "If I'm not mistaken, this girl is about to drown in her own blood."

Hermione's eyesight was returning in patches. Most of her field of vision was drenched in fuzzy white. She caught a glimpse of the inside of a small, dingy flat, and registered that she had been placed on a hard table. To her dismay, she heard the snip of a pair of scissors and felt cool steel slide over her breastbone. Tiberius was cutting off her blood-soaked clothing.

"This isn't from splinching," said the old man. "What happened?"

Malfoy sounded very weary when he replied. "She tried to Disapparate within one of the most powerful containment wards ever devised. They are an unfortunate speciality of my Master's."

Tiberius whistled low. "By rights she should be dead."

"By rights it should never have happened," was Malfoy's terse reply. Hermione heard a chair skid across the room.

"There now, boy! No sense ruining what few comforts I have left in my home!"

"Get on with it, Tiberius. There's gold for your troubles."

Tiberius grunted. "And here I was thinking I was working for my own life," he muttered. "Right, let's see…" A hand pressed down against her abdomen and she cried out from the pain. "It's internal bleeding," Tiberius surmised. "Pulverised, is what happens. I've seen it a few times back at St Mungos. The wards fall in on you. It's like getting sat on by a giant."

"Will she live?"

"If I get this brew into her now? Possibly. Here, lad, lift her head."

Hermione felt Malfoy gently lift the top half of her body, cradling her head. She moaned.

"Easy there. Right, grab her chin and tip her head back. We'll try a few drops at a time, shall we?"

"Give her more," Malfoy commanded.

"We don't want to drown her in the stuff. Patience. Yes, that's a good lass. See? Clever girl."

"Oh, you don't know the half of it," muttered Malfoy.

"That's enough to be getting on with," Tiberius said. "Here, clean her up with this and I shall fetch my books. There is a charm to be used for the internal repair."


	5. Chapter 5

It took Hermione a few minutes to fully awaken.

When she did, she noted with resignation that she was once again back in her godforsaken tower. Malfoy was sitting in a chair beside the bed, reading what she recognised as a seventh year Advanced Potions textbook. Impossibly, his copy contained more flag-notes and folded pages than hers did.

He looked like hell.

There was a few day's growth of beard on his face and he was wearing the same robes he'd had on the last time she'd seen him. Only now there were dark spatters on the black material, which she assumed was her dried blood.

"Water."

The book snapped shut and he assisted her to sit up so she could sip at a cup.

His observed her with bloodshot eyes. "You're an idiot. If you truly wanted to die, there are hundreds of less painful alternatives."

Hermione coughed as she sat back heavily against the headboard. She had no idea what she was feeling at that moment. It was a strange sort of impatient, frustrated rage. "I had your sodding wand in my hands. I should have killed you."

"Then you'd be dead now," he said, simply. "You found out the hard way that this tower and the surrounding grounds are Warded, such that anyone who attempts to leave by unauthorised Disapparation will find themselves facing a slight case of death."

She was too exhausted to say more than, "I had to try."

"Evidently," he said, dryly. "You're lucky to be alive. You forgot what Flitwick taught us. There are tests you could have performed to determine if such wards are in place."

She attempted to retrieve the memory. "When was that, fifth year? Perhaps I wasn't in class."

"Perhaps," he allowed. "It was a busy year."

Hermione snorted. She realised she was slurring her words. "When you're _us_. Every year is a busy year."

There was a silence populated with memories. It became a heavier silence, however, once the realities of the present started to intrude. Hermione closed her eyes, hating the hysterics that she was barely managing to keep leashed. Her body may have been on the mend now, but her mind had been somewhere dark and desolate for many months.

"Please. _Please let me go_."

It took him an eternity to respond. She didn't have the energy to keep her eyes open, so they were still shut when she heard his reply.

"I cannot."

"Then let me die."

"_No_," he said, and there was steel in his voice now.

Hermione felt like she was fading. The lights were dimming. His voice had become more distant-sounding, as if he were speaking to her from a long way away. She couldn't feel the rest of her body. Part of her knew this was just the side effect of healing charms doing their blessed work, but in contrast to her request to Malfoy, the idea of not coming back _terrified _her.

"I'm scared," she said, as the tears finally escaped her tightly shut eyes. Her right hand fell to her side. To her relief she felt Malfoy take it; her small hand was enveloped in his much larger, warmer grasp. "I want to go home."

"I know," he said, so softly she almost missed it.

It was safe to sleep now, she decided. She slept for a hundred years.

* * *

While Hermione's environment remained mind-numbingly constant during her captivity, Malfoy's was apparently a flurry of violence, plotting, missions and meetings. Some days he came to her cell nearly staggering from exhaustion; too weary to put much menace into interrogation.

Sometimes, they had such painfully normal conversations that Hermione had to keep reminding herself of _who _they were. It was exhausting maintaining that kind of animosity as a matter of principle and integrity. She was not engineered for it.

"The Muggles have a new Prime Minister," Malfoy informed her one day. He tossed her a copy of _The Sun_. She was eating a banana and nearly dropped it in her haste to catch the paper.

It was a rare treat (even if it was _The Sun_) and it seemed he was in a rare mood. Hermione devoured the front-page article. There was also an insert in the middle of the paper, all about the new appointment. "I think you mean _Britain _has a new Prime Minister. The last time I checked, you're British," she said, lamentably with a mouth fill of banana.

He leaned beside the window, crossed his arms and gave a wan smile. "After a fashion."

Hermione decided it was worth a try. "May I keep this?"

"You may keep the paper, and also this—" He produced a copy of _Vanity Fair _magazine, of all things, from inside his robes and made a show of leafing through it. "It's not the current issue, but I don't think you care."

It was all Hermione could do to contain herself from lunging across the room and snatching the magazine from him. Oh, to have something to read after so long! He'd denied all her other requests for books, quill and paper. What had changed? Obviously there was going to be a catch. Her excitement turned to wariness.

"What do you want from me in return?"

He put the magazine away and gave her a different smile. This one was conspiratorial and she was utterly disgusted to find herself momentarily dazzled by it.

"I have in my possession a list of new Ministry officials who will commence their positions in the new year. You are to indicate the ones you are familiar with and inform me of their political leanings. Any other pertinent personal information will also be appreciated."

"What kind of…pertinent personal information?"

"Oh, whatever you may happen to have heard," he said, shrugging. "Relationship status, family strife, sexual orientation. That sort of thing."

"Sexual orientation? How does this help Voldemort? Oh are you lot homophobic along with being bigots and eugenicists? I suppose it's only fitting."

Last year, she would have been left to starve for a few days had she shown such audacity. But on this occasion, Malfoy merely raised an eyebrow and to her surprise, responded, enunciating carefully.

"It is helpful to know as much as we can about the community representatives who make the policies and laws you seem so happy to obey without question."

That seemed like too sensible a response. Hermione shot him a sceptical look.

"_And _it provides fodder for blackmail," he added, amused.

"Blackmail. Of course."

He ignored her sarcasm. "As for sexual orientation. Again, such information may be utilised for extortion or bribery."

"Bribery?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "You are without a doubt the moist naïve politician I have ever encountered." He paced the room. It was something he did when deep in thought. Or deeply troubled. "Yes, Granger, _bribery_. Some unconventional itches may prove difficult to scratch." He came to stand before her, a slight smirk of amused condescension on his face. He divested her of a banana from her food stores and began to peel it. "It's not every man that enjoys the obvious, low hanging fruit, so to speak. Some aim for the top of the tree. Or would rather harvest from another orchard altogether."

She watched him take a bite, while he watched her watching him. She was aware of her breathing, his alarming proximity and the very odd look in his eyes. He looked mildly perturbed. Also—_damn it_—that had been the last banana.

"I bet you led the lads at the Ministry a merry chase, didn't you?" He was standing close enough to whisper.

"I did no such thing."

He chuckled. "You don't have to be aware of the chase to be responsible for it." His eyes took a rather impersonal tour of her person. "Who would have thought? Plain, mousy, studious Hermione Granger would grow up to be such…delectable fruit."

Her eyes widened at this. If he wanted to play with this particular metaphor, she was more than happy to spar. "I wish I could say I'm similarly surprised by the path you've taken. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?"

He didn't care for her mentioning his father. The hardness leached back into his face. He frowned. "Careful you do not overstep yourself."

"Overstepping myself, as you see it, would be to shove this newspaper back in your face and refuse to do as you ask." For emphasis, she rolled up the paper and slapped it into his chest.

He took the paper from her, slowly. There was a glint in his eye that had her worried. "Odd. One would assume that after two years of being here, you'd have accustomed yourself to your role as a captive. Forgive me if I've misled you, Granger, but I am not actually giving you the option to refuse."

Repercussions be damned. She wanted to see where he would take this. "And yet here I am, refusing all the same."

Now, his gaze was _all _glint and no humour. It was tricky looking intimidating while holding half a banana, but he managed it. "Do not make this difficult."

"What, did you run out of Veritaserum or something?"

"Oh, it would work, in conjunction with _Imperio_, of course." His voice lowered. "Is that really what you want?"

Hermione was beyond caring about her personal safety now. It was disconcerting to realise she knew he wasn't going to harm her. She just _knew_ it. "Take your little list, and piss off," she hissed. "Either arrange a ransom or exchange or _something _with the Ministry, or do away with me. But I have had enough of this question and answer bollocks."

He blinked down at her. Hermione realised she'd been jabbing her finger into his chest. Well, when on a roll…

"Furthermore—" she began, but got no further.

"_Imperio_."

Hermione absolutely detested how good he was at that curse and how pathetic she seemed to be at throwing it off. With an obnoxiously dramatic sigh, he took the list from inside his robes and was about to read it out to her to obtain her verbal responses, when he seemed to change his mind.

There was a terrible, unhealthy pause.

"Stand before me. Closer. Yes, good. Now, _look _at me."

Her head raised and her eyes met his. She could not decipher his expression. He looked troubled, for lack of a better description.

"Of all the Death Eaters my Master might have sent to abduct you, you are beyond fortunate that he picked me," Malfoy told her. "Another wizard would have had you broken, bleeding and begging on your first night in this room. This is _war_, Granger. You are a prisoner of war, but a well-cared for prisoner. _Never _forget it. It is your supreme good luck that I should be the one responsible for you."

Her breathing was ragged. Maintaining eye contact was excruciating, but to do other than what he commanded was impossible.

"That being said, it has been a good, long while since…" His quicksilver eyes lowered to her mouth. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them on the bed. With his fingertips, he traced a line down from her temple, stopping at her lips.

"You are the strangest combination of resilience and fragility," he told her, frowning. "I never know what to expect, day to day. It is a sad state of affairs indeed, that coming here is quite often the highlight of my week. You enjoy knowing that, don't you? Thinking that you could bring a Pureblood to heel." His stare turned diamond-hard. "But I am _not_ one to be heeled, Mudblood. _Take off your robes_."


	6. Chapter 6

_"No!" _screamed Hermione, inside her head. She screamed until her brain seemed to ring with the force of her silent shouts. But that did not stop or even slow her hands from unbuttoning her outer robes and shrugging out of them. Beneath, she wore a thin, cotton shift, nearly transparent from wear.

Malfoy's breathing wasn't quite so even any longer. His eyes lowered, hidden under dark blond lashes. One hand came up and touched lightly at her waist, and then upwards, knuckles brushing against the swell of her breast. Hermione was trembling from head to foot, perspiration breaking out on her brow and sensitized, Curse-affected flesh covered in goose-bumps. Her nipples were painfully erect, straining against the soft cotton of her shift.

"Closer," he whispered, soaking in every embarrassing detail.

Hermione stepped into his arms, head still tilted upward to meet his stare.

"Shut your eyes."

She did, and then wanted to leap out of her own skin when she felt him gently take her chin as then felt his breath skate her lips. "Open your mouth," he ordered.

The kiss that never came was not a prelude to the assault that did not follow. Hips lips brushed against hers, but all he did was speak against them. "Take the potion."

He placed the familiar vial of clear liquid in her hand. Automatically, she uncapped it and drained it, suddenly so mind-numbingly relieved to have this abomination of a potion replace the previous abomination of a spell. And that had been precisely the outcome he'd been seeking, in debasing her like this.

Ultimately, it took two hours for her to finish going through the list. Her hand was cramped from writing the notes wanted.

Malfoy blew on the ink before rolling up the parchment and pocketing it. "_Finite Incantatum_," he said, and Hermione immediately collapsed forward at the table, still clad only in her shift. The loathing in her eyes when she looked at him had no effect on his improved mood. She was aware that while she was no longer under Imperio, the Veritaserum was still prominent in her system.

He gathered his things and didn't speak to her again until he was at the door. He paused, looked at her.

"Tell me. Did you want me to kiss you earlier?"

Mortified and furious, there was nothing she could do to stop her mouth from forming the one answer she was loath to give him. It turned out to be a revelation for her as well. Hermione bit her lip until a thin line of blood ran down her chin, but the truth could not be contained.

"Yes."

He shut her cell door moments before she hurled his half eaten banana at it.

* * *

Other times, invariably late at night, he'd come to the cell smelling strongly of astringent soap. He was silent on these nights. No questions. He'd sit in a chair, put his head in his hands and there he would remain for an hour or two.

Hermione didn't think it wise to speak to him during these bouts. But eventually, as was her chronic failing, curiosity won out.

"What happened?" she finally asked, one evening.

Malfoy looked up and stared at her. He was hollow-eyed. The bleakness in his gaze was harrowing. Hermione pulled herself to the edge of the bed, sat there and simply waited for him to unravel.

The words came, listless and robotic. He told her that he'd led a team that night to exterminate the family of a Death Eater who had turned.

"There are Death Eaters who try to leave?" Hermione asked. She was aware she was being afforded a rare insight into the inner processes of Voldemort's followers. She also wondered why she wasn't filing this away purely for tactical benefit. There was that, yes, but this had more than one kind of value.

Malfoy laughed bitterly. "Oh, yes. They turn. Dozens have left…or have attempted to."

"I see. Go on."

He did unravel. Hermione nearly wished he hadn't

After the man had been dealt with, there were two children; a boy and a girl under five years of age, and their mother. Draco told her how none of them screamed as the team had advanced. They'd simply held on to each other. He said he could only imagine the quality of life they'd led up until that point, to be so resigned to death. They were in hiding, dressed in rags and living in squalor.

The woman had told him something.

"What was it?"

He had some trouble relaying it. The words seemed to stick in his throat. "She told me that love was the only sane and satisfactory answer to the problem of my existence."

Hermione wasn't sure what to make of that. No denying it was an exceedingly odd thing to tell one's executioner. It didn't sound like final words so much as advice. She wanted to scream at the horror and injustice of the crime committed. It was moments like these that she felt he was from a different species altogether. The things he did were incomprehensible to her.

"Did you know this woman?" was the logical, follow-up question, however.

Malfoy shook his head. He blinked down at his hands, flexing them slightly before bringing them back into tight fists.  
Hermione took some time to process what might have possibly been coalescing in his mind. She could have taken tiny, tentative steps, but when it came to encouraging progress, she had always been a high-achiever. It felt like the right thing to do at the right time.

She put her hand over his. "Do you want to stop, Draco?"

He turned to look at her and if she didn't know almost aspect of his face, every line, she would have sworn she wasn't looking at Draco Malfoy anymore.

"I don't know _how_…"


	7. Chapter 7

It turned out, after all, that Draco Malfoy was _human_. He was the enemy, among many other heinous things, but somewhere inside him was a moral compass that still twitched towards true north.

He was cooler to her, after that conversation. There was an extended period of quiet on both fronts. This meant that Malfoy had no real need to see her. His visits consisted of enormous, silent deposits of food, supplies and new reading material through a slot at the door. Three weeks of this went by. And then five weeks. By the seventh week, her imagination ran amok.

Hermione thought that maybe the war had gone full-scale. Perhaps Harry had launched an attack? That seemed more likely than Voldemort going on the offensive, considering all the other Horcruxes had already been destroyed, rendering Voldemort vulnerable. What if Harry had fallen? No. If Harry was dead, then she was a useless hostage and would have already been disposed of.

She truly feared the worst when the door to her cell opened in the early hours one morning. Hermione could barely see Malfoy in the darkness. He approached her as she sat up in bed, pushing hair out of her eyes. To her surprise, he took her hand and put a folded piece of paper into it.

"Tell me what this is. Tell me how it works."

Hermione unfolded the paper with shaking hands. Unfortunately, there was not enough light to even see him, let alone read what he gave her. Malfoy must have come to the same conclusion, because he cast _Lumos _and flooded the small room with light.

Hermione raised her hand up to shield her eyes from the glare. She looked at him through her fingers. He was standing very close, such that she could smell alcohol on his breath. This behaviour was not characteristic of him. Neither was his attire, for that matter. He was windswept and wearing dusty blue flying robes instead of his usual, sombre black. His hair was the longest she'd ever seen it and he was sporting a beard. It was his eyes, however, that showed the greatest change. They were manic and sunken. He removed his gloves and roughly wrapped an icy cold hand around her wrist. It was the first time he'd touched her since the incident with the Ministry staff list.

"Read it! Explain it to me."

It was a report on a new device created by Berkeley Bionics; an exoskeleton that could enable paraplegics to walk again. She read and summarised the contents of the article in terms she thought Malfoy would better understand.

"Muggles…_made _this machine?" he asked, pointing to the picture in the article.

"Yes," she replied. "Muggle scientists."

"I need to acquire this for my father."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Your father's been injured?"

She flinched when Malfoy looked at her again. There was undisguised loathing in his eyes. "Potter attacked the location my father was stationed at, with the aim of finding _you_. Potter walked away unscathed. My father was not so fortunate."

Simply hearing Harry's name filled her with giddy happiness. Hermione tried to disguise it, but Malfoy was watching too closely to not have noticed.

"If your healers have been unable to see to your father's injuries, I'm guessing whatever those injuries may be, they are resistant to magical intervention?"

"Yes."

"So you're looking for a mechanical alternative?" she surmised. "Well, yes. It's certainly worth a shot."

He was silent. The next thing he said surprised her. "How does one function without magic?"

She realised that the impromptu visit wasn't just to ask her about the device. Malfoy was standing at some sort of precarious decision-precipice.

"Muggles make do without magic well enough. We have philosophy, art, science, music, human and animal rights…after a fashion, and also the right to habeas corpus. All you lot claim to have is something you can't measure or hold or put to any good use. The world doesn't revolve around you. In fact, it continues _in spite _of you. It doesn't know you exist. Your numbers are miniscule, Malfoy, compared to Muggles and Muggleborns, who represent the best of both worlds. Even with magic, not even Voldemort is immortal. Do you really want war? Because you're on a path to achieving that and it's going to be suicide."

He stared down at her, his eyes glittering.

Hermione thought she knew what his problem was. She was nearly certain of it, but was justifiably concerned that her prolonged solitude and captivity had compromised her judgement. She proceeded very carefully. Her breath catching, she slowly put her arms around him, flattened her palms against his back and pulled herself into him. She was certain he would feel her wild, hammering heartbeat through the combined layers of their clothing. And then was startled when she could feel _his_.

"You realise it's been nearly two months since I've seen you? I didn't know what to think."

In response to that, Malfoy became a block of concrete, but she held on to him, waiting. By the fifth breath, he turned pliable. His arms wrapped around her and he completed the embrace.

"Well," he announced, in a gruff voice. "Is this the sane or the satisfactory bit?"

It was a wry statement worthy of a laugh. It honestly was. But there was nothing remotely amusing about what was happening. Hermione could scarcely _believe _what was happening.

He pulled away first and then they looked at each other in incredulity.

"Damn you," he said. He held out his hand to her. "Come with me."


	8. Chapter 8

It started raining the moment they were under open sky that was tinged with the orange of a new day. As much as Hermione had fantasized about freedom, the reality of it was quite terrifying.

Draco explained that the wards allowed open Apparation by authorised individuals. Disapparation, however, was less heavily policed and operated on a timer. This explained why he usually left at sunset. It was barely sunrise when they made their way outside and left the fortress by broom flight. Hermione maintained a death grip around his waist, convinced that his treachery was already known and that Voldemort had surely sent Death Eaters to deal with them.

They flew low and remained within the wider compound. Minutes later, Draco touched down in a clearing that housed a cottage. Hermione climbed off his broom. The rain was coming down heavier now.

"What is this, like your private Death Eater clubhouse or something?"

"Or something," he said. "This is my home."

* * *

Despite his former social status and the fact he was Voldemort's trusted man, Draco did not have many belongings to speak of. There were some basic pieces of furniture, clothing, numerous weapons, a store of potion ingredients and books. There were also a few bits and pieces from school. A Quidditch jersey folded up. A faded Hogwarts flag pinned to a bookshelf. She recognised some old textbooks. Most of them were the same Potions and Charms compendiums she had kept as well.

Hermione supposed that the accumulation of material comforts was somewhat pointless for a soldier. The Death Eaters did what they did, with the aim of bringing about a future where they could eventually hang up their masks and reap the benefits of their victory. Hermione didn't think it necessary to point out how unlikely this imagined future was. Until today, Draco would have lived and died a soldier.

"Not quite what you expected, is it?" He'd been leaning against a wall, watching her.

She shook her head. This Spartan existence was far removed from the type of lifestyle she had known him to enjoy.

"It's not really living, doing what I do now," he told her, without any trace of bitterness. "We work towards a future where Purebloods may once again enjoy the status we deserve."

Hermione was now in the process of building a fire in the fireplace. Her coarse, wet robes were stuck to her body. "Status is earned, not deserved," she said.

"Not for a Pureblood. The old ways are lost. The old magic corrupted. You don't know _old _magic, Granger. It's far more potent, more powerful than what you practice. And we fight to make it the exclusive right and domain of Purebloods."

"So this power is all that is important to you?" she asked, as she added kindling and gently blew over it. She heard him remove his soaked flying robes. When he next spoke, he was standing over her.

"Power is everything," he said, as he touched her damp hair. "The Light, as you call it… _Your _way is to hold back, to be afraid of magic's potential. That is all that magic is—potential. Potential for monstrous acts and great ones, too. It is a monumental responsibility and the privilege that is magic should only be maintained by a precious few, not the many."

When she was done building the fire, he pulled her up by her forearms. They stood flush against each other. Hermione's shivering was not from the cold. She was a bundle of nervous anticipation. It felt like her heart was trampolining on her stomach.

"So that's the sad package Voldemort sells you?"

"This is what I know," he said. "I've always known it."

"Why did you release me, then? Isn't this contrary to Voldemort's plans?"

Malfoy thought for a moment. "Suffice to say I found there was actually something I wanted more than the benefit your capture would bring to my cause."

"And what is that?"

He stared at her in wonder. "You."

* * *

He tasted like the rain when he kissed her. They were cold, and clammy, but also so hot that she felt even just skin was too much to be wearing. The mechanics of it was the same, whether one was a Death Eater or not. She shook like a leaf the whole time, so much so that on occasions, he had to stop and simply hold her.

Hands go here. Lips go there. Hardness on softness. She was not a virgin, but still largely inexperienced. War and work had not allowed for much time to socialise or nurture romances. It felt strange to put her eager hands on the embodiment of everything she detested. How odd to be with him in that intimate way, considering they'd know each other since they were eleven years old. She knew his gait, the intonations of his speech, his laugh, the light that switched on behind his eyes when they engaged in a battle of wits, and she knew the peaks and troughs of his anger. But he was still so alien to her, and not just because what they were doing was forbidden.

He was the poster boy of all that was wretchedly wrong about Voldemort's campaign. But if she let herself forget, she could pretend that he was just a man. No agendas, no blood purity. The Death Eater mask was set aside and what lay behind was the other Draco; the one that tried to co-exist with the persona that Lucius Malfoy and Voldemort had honed. Her hypothesis had been correct.

Against all odds, she has succeeded in endearing herself to him and had gained her freedom as a result. Three years of calculated action, to garner the correct reaction. But she realised now that it had been as much instinct as calculation.

Now, all she had to do was work out how to ignore the fact that she'd buggered up her grand scheme royally. She hated him and yet she wanted to keep him in her arms and protect him because he was a fool to be what he was.

And so was she, to love him.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry visited her at St Mungos the day after Malfoy set her free. He came with a posy of her favourite flowers—daffodils. Ron was in France for Auror business, but was rushing back to see her. She'd already spoken to him via Floo and he'd been in tears. It was difficult. Obviously Harry had questions, but had the common sense not to ask them yet. Hermione stared at her hands as they twisted the bed covers at her lap.

"Three years," he said, shaking his head. "We never gave up hope that you were alive. I kept asking for proof, but the bastard never gave us any."

Hermione's head lifted. "You mean Draco?"

Harry was watching her carefully. "No, I mean Voldemort. When it came to the matter of your abduction, I never dealt with Malfoy. Up until yesterday, that is."

The ensuing silence was prickly.

"I thought we were about to conduct an exchange. Imagine my surprise to realise it was merely a drop off. He was utterly insane to walk up to my door step, but I wasn't about to question my good fortune. Not yet, at any rate."

"Thank you for not…pursuing the matter."

Harry sighed. "Pursuing the 'matter' was secondary to making sure you were taken care of." She felt Harry's warm, larger hand cover her fidgeting ones. "I cannot begin to imagine what you must have gone through," he said, and there was a tremor in his voice that brought tears to both their eyes. "I don't need anything else from you at this point, not answers, not anything. I just want you to be OK. We have all the time in the world to talk. Yes?"

She nodded, and the movement sent fat tears spilling onto the starched sheets.

It was kind of Harry to give her that reassurance. However, the 'how' and 'why' conversation could not have been delayed for too much longer. This was especially the case given that she discovered she was pregnant three weeks later.

* * *

_Present day_

Perhaps she shouldn't have had that cup of tea after all. The caffeine gave her fitful dreams. Hermione was asleep and dreaming about Hogwarts, of all things, when she awoke to find a hand placed firmly over her mouth.

"Be still," Draco said. He was lying next to her on the bed, dressed in dark red Auror robes. "You won't scream?" he asked, as he handed Hermione the wand he'd taken from her bedside table.

She shook her head, her eyes wide in disbelief to find him inside the safe-house Harry had organised for the delivery of the babies.

He removed his hand. "You have no idea how difficult it was to find you. Potter certainly has a talent at hiding his treasure." His eyes travelled over her face and then down to her belly, which was a small mountain under the bedcovers. He looked floored. "As for _this_, I'm not going to bother assuming anything else other than the obvious…"

The truth was the safest option, she figured, sitting up. "Our twins are due any day now."

Draco placed a lightly shaking hand over her abdomen. He didn't actually touch her, though. His hand merely hovered. He licked his lips and frowned. Hermione helped him by placing her hands on top of his and pressing them down onto her warm belly. She could only stare at him in amazement, feeling the blubbering barely held at bay. He looked windswept and nervous and beautiful.

"How the bloody hell did you get in here?"

His very obvious display of nerves was at odd with the wink he gave her. "I have my ways. One of those ways being the window."

Hermione could only stare. "Harry's right. You _are_insane. Did you hurt anyone for that uniform?" she demanded.

He smiled at her vehemence. "Do you think I traipse around looking for excuses to perpetrate murder?"

"Are you still a Death Eater?"

"Yes."

"There's my answer."

He rolled his eyes. "If you must know, stealing a set of robes from the Ministry laundry service seemed like the less messy option."

"Malfoy, the guards will kill you on the spot if they find you here, Auror robes or not!"

"Then don't let them find me," said Draco, gently. He observed the room. "I see you've traded one prison for another."

Hermione got out of bed. It was a three-step process and not without a deal of discomfort. Draco went to her assistance, but she swatted his hand away. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but we're _not _doing it."

It was a travesty that the Auror uniform suited him so well. "Granger, if that logic worked for us in the first place, we wouldn't _be _in this situation."

She waddled over to the door, opened it to check the corridor outside, before shutting it silently. "There is no situation!" she hissed.

"I'm _looking _at a rather large situation," he countered.

"What do you want from me?" she demanded. "By all rights I should be calling for the guards."

"Then why aren't you?"

She didn't have an immediate answer. Not a verbal one, anyway. He didn't wait for one. He slid off the bed and began opening drawers at the bedside table. "Pack what you need. You're coming with me."

Hermione shook her head, hands over her tummy. "No."

"What do you mean, 'no'? I came here for _you_, you daft woman."

She approached him, wand held aloft. "You kept me prisoner for three years! I nearly died once during that time! You're a Death Eater! There is nothing you can offer me that would make me even remotely consider leaving Harry, my family, my friends and my home!" She was sobbing uncontrollably, and wanted to beat on his chest, only her abdomen was in the way. "Damn you, Malfoy. I want to kill you for what you did to me! I wake up in the morning and expect to find myself back in that tower. I have nightmares. I can't go out in public without taking a potion to manage my panic attacks." She would have slumped to the ground if he hadn't caught her.

Hermione tried to pull away from him, but he turned her around and held her to him, her back at his chest.

"I can't change what you endured," he whispered.

She laughed bitterly. "Is that meant to be an apology?"

"An apology would be next to worthless in this situation," he said, into her hair. "For you, I will leave this life. I will renounce my master. I will take you as far as we need to go to be safe and you will want for nothing."

She turned in his arms so she could look at him. "So it would be just you and me and the babies? Is that it? We'd play happy family? You think you could do that?"

"Granger, I can do anything I set my heart on."

"Except stop doing Voldemort's bidding when you want to…"

"I will cease to be _his _the moment you leave with me!" he hissed. His fingers were digging painfully into her shoulders. "I don't understand your reticence! What is the alternative?"

She pushed his hands away. "That you don't understand my reticence in running away with you shows how much you don't understand me! The alternative, Draco, is for you to stay with _me_. Here."

His stare grew dark. "You're talking about turning myself in? Becoming an informant?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Impossible. The other way—"

"Is under your terms," she interrupted. "It's only ever been your terms. This insanity between us has never been tested in the real world, with consequences. If you want me, then you can have me under _my _terms. That is the alternative." She winced as one of the babies kicked hard.

Draco materialised at her side, leading her back to the bed. "Sit," he ordered, and when she had done so, with a mutinous expression, he began to pace. "Your Ministry will have me rotting in Azkaban, you realise?"

Hermione sighed. "For a time. I can't see how it can be avoided. You're the bleeding _General_, Malfoy. Harry said it's just my luck I didn't fall for some cannon-fodder, foot solider variety of Death Eater…"

"There can be no assurance of a plea bargain from the Ministry."

"I'll do everything in my power to bring one to course," she declared. "Draco, I can also do anything I set my heart on. I got away from you, didn't I?"

He ceased his pacing to look at her. His expression was frightening, mostly because _he _looked frightened. "What do you mean? Are you saying what happened between us was manufactured?"

She didn't want to tell him, but it had gone too far now. "That was the aim at the beginning. The way I saw it, it was the only chance at escape."

His expression was dark. "I see."

Her hand reached out to him. "Draco…"

He looked away, refusing to meet her eyes. "You cannot promise a plea bargain. The Ministry will consider your judgment to be clouded. There is no point in my turning myself in if we cannot be together, and certainly not if you do not wish us to be together."

Hermione's eyes closed. She wondered at how the human heart could go on beating in the midst of such agony. "This is you telling me 'no', isn't it?" she whispered. His lack of a reply was answer enough. She tried a different tact, even though she knew it was going to break her heart.

"Draco, do you love me?"

She saw his hands ball into fists at his side. He stopped abruptly, looked at her and she was amazed to see the tears on his face. His eyes were gleaming silver. "Yes."

That was enough for now. He would stay. He would do what was necessary.

She believed in him.


	10. Chapter 10

Harry knew the wizarding community would be surprised and dismayed to realise just how many friends he had in low places. Or perhaps 'friends' wasn't the best word for them. More like contacts, acquaintances.

Information conduits.

One such conduit was risking much to arrange a meeting that could potentially end the war if one party in the proceedings managed to kill the other. An end to the war was not good for business. The stakes were very high indeed, but Harry had paid handsomely for the arranged appointment, and had waited two months for it to eventuate.

In a Muggle junk yard, south of London, Harry Potter met with Draco Malfoy. It was just the two of them and the assurance that their respective political causes would be put aside for the duration of the meeting.

"What is it?" Malfoy asked. Though the haunted look on his face suggested he already had an idea as to what Harry was about to tell him. Harry's appearance was something of a walking advertisement anyway.

"Your children were born a little over a month ago. They're fine. Healthy as oxen—a boy and a girl."

Malfoy's face was deathly pale. His stare ought to have burned a hole through Harry's skull, such was the intensity of it. "_What's happened to Hermione_?"

"We lost her," Harry said, and was surprised how easy it was to say it now. He had had trouble even _thinking _it, before. "It was a haemorrhage, just after the children were born. The mediwitch said it was probably due to some sort of previous internal injury."

Malfoy took a few steps backwards, as if Harry's words were dangerous. He turned and then faltered. He fell to his knees and then put his face in his hands, shoulders heaving.

Harry stood there, feeling evil to the marrow of his bones for thinking only one thing in that moment.

_Good. Hurt._

After a minute, Malfoy stood, took in a shuddering breath before turning a ravaged face to Harry. "Where were you?" he hissed. "How could you let this happen?"

"I was there the whole time, you bastard," Harry seethed. "I held her hand. I held the babies." His voice hitched and he paused to calm himself. "I was there when it turned bad, when the unthinkable happened. Where were _you_?"

Malfoy said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He stared at his boots, swaying slightly on his feet. "I…I thank you for telling me," he told Harry, before turning to leave.

Harry took a step toward him. "Wait. The twins have not yet been named. That is, Hermione didn't get around to telling me what she wanted to call them. I can't think of what she might have… I mean, I don't know if it's my place to—"

"Jack and Eva," came the almost inaudible response. "I've always been partial…to Jack and Eva."

"Thank you," said Harry. "Jack and Eva, it is. And Malfoy?"

Draco stopped, his back still to Harry.

"If you come near your children after today, I'll kill you with my bare hands."

Harry took Malfoy's silence as acknowledgement.


	11. Chapter 11

_Fourteen years later_

Jack Granger dove to the ground and commando crawled to better cover behind an outcropping of granite boulders. It was, for lack of a better word, a magical _shitstorm_.

"You're on fire," informed Eva. "And yes, I mean that literally."

"Damn," he said, slapping at the smouldering fabric of his t-shirt. "Thought I was clear."

"You also thought this was going to be a simple reconnaissance mission. Only it's not just a hideout, it's their bloody HQ from the looks of things!" Eva bunkered down beside him and the siblings were silent as a stream of heavy wand-fire passed overhead. She pushed her curly blonde hair off her face. "I hope to Merlin they don't work out that it's just the two of us back here."

Jack consulted his watch. "How long do you reckon before Harry gets here?"

"_If _he gets here!"

"Don't worry, Grandson of Errol will get that message to him."

Eva stared at her bother. "Jack, I know you're awfully fond of that ridiculous bird, but Grandson of Errol couldn't find his own arse in the dark."

"Language!" Jack said.

"Duck!" Eva said at the same time.

A hail of _Reductos_ caused a shower of twigs and leaves to fall over them.

"Happily, their aim seems to be rubbish, but I don't know how much more of this we can handle," muttered Jack.

His sister peeked out over the boulders. "I count sixteen. As bad as this idea was, Harry's going to _kill_ us when he realises we've actually worked out how to get into this compound. With this many Death Eaters, the scaly, old creep's got to be in here somewhere. _Uh-oh_."

"What is it?" Jack asked, straining to have a look.

"They're advancing," said his sister, sounding frightened now. "I think it's time to run for it."

"What about the wards?"

Eva thought for a moment. "Right…I have no idea why we could just walk into this area so easily. You heard what Harry said. No one's been able to crack the enchantment. It doesn't make any sense that we just breezed in, but we can't seem to bloody Disapparate out!"

Jack winced as a hex shaved off the top of the boulder they were hiding behind. "OK. So say we make a run for the edge of the barrier? That's the only thing for it. The wards can't stretch on forever, right?"

Eva stared at him. "That could be several kilometers."

"Then I suggest we run like the wind." Jack held out his hand to his sister. "On the count of three?"

"Wait, we need a distraction." Eva aimed her wand at the tree-line beside the attacking Death Eaters, closed her eyes and murmured an incantation.

The wand-fire from the Death Eater squadron abruptly stopped. Three trolls blundered out of the trees, growling and waving clubs the size of ponies. Closer inspection would reveal that the sunshine seemed to pass right through the creatures, but the Death Eaters were in too much of a disbelieving panic to notice.

Jack whistled in appreciation. "Nice one."

"Move, you oaf! Quickly!"

The two teenagers bolted through bracken and woodland. They stopped twice to test if they had passed the anti-Apparation wards.

Eva doubled over, panting. She rested her hands on her knees to catch her breath. "I can't keep this up! Please tell me we're clear…"

The hiss and pop of Jack's ward-testing spell provided the grim answer. He grunted in frustration. "No, we have to keep moving!"

Behind them was the sound of shouting men and wand-fire. "They're coming," Eva whispered.

Jack swore. He looked at his sister. "Run, I'll hold them off."

Eva's grabbed her brother's hand. "No! We go together or we stay together."

Jack gripped her by the shoulders. "Listen! Someone has to stay behind to delay them, or we're both going to end up dead. Or worse! Think of Nan and Pop! Think of Harry!"

Eva shrugged his hands way. Tears were streaming down her face. Her silver eyes were wide with panic. "Why does it have to be you, you twit? _You _go, I'll stay! You're the faster runner anyway."

"You will do as I say! I'm older!"

"By three minutes!" she retorted.

"Are the pair of you always this argumentative?" inquired a low, male voice.

The twins spun around towards the direction of the voice, wands trained. A tall, dark-cloaked figure stood not far from them. He was wearing a Death Eater mask.

Jack shoved his sister behind him. "Stay where you are!" he shouted.

The man did not advance, but pulled back his hood and removed his mask. Eva gasped. Beside her, Jack's silent shock was nearly tangible.

"Given the urgency of the situation, I'll just get to the point, shall I?" the tall man said. "I'm your father, and I'm in the process of saving your lives. Follow me, please."


	12. Chapter 12

"Jack!" Eva hissed, as they trailed behind the man. "Merlin, he looks just like _you_."

"I did notice that, yes," said her brother, sounding dazed.

"So is that why we're trusting him?"

"We really have no choice, do we?"

* * *

The General led them to an old cottage, ushered them inside and shut the door. At length, he observed the siblings, who were standing in the middle of the living room, wearing matching expressions of frightened incredulity on their young faces. The boy, Jack, was half a head taller than his sister, with pale skin, fine, patrician features and hair the colour of chestnuts. His eyes were a perfect match for the General's—a grey that was more silver than storm. In contrast to her bother, the girl had a golden hue to her freckled skin. Her hair was long, curly and honey-blonde, and her eyes a warm topaz.

"We don't have much time, so I will make this brief. I do not have it within my power to undo the boundary enchantment that my master has erected around this area. In answer to your unasked question, the perimeter extends some sixteen square kilometres from the hub." He paused to allow Eva's gasp. "Nothing enters without permission and certainly, nothing leaves without permission."

"But we entered!" said Jack. "We walked right in!"

At this, the General looked an odd mixture of annoyed and resigned. "You were able to enter the area because the wards mistook you for me," he explained. "My name is Draco Malfoy. It's nice to finally meet the two of you. Your godfather has done an astounding job of hiding you from my Master these many years."

Eva swiped a hand under her running nose. "We lived with our grandparents in Australia until not long ago. You're this General everyone's afraid of, aren't you? Voldemort's right hand?"

"I am."

"Harry said our real father was dead."

"Not unwise of him, give the situation. I am not dead, however."

"But you're still a Death Eater?" Eva demanded.

Draco smiled oddly at the question. "Yes, I am still a Death Eater. Forgive my inappropriate amusement, but your mother asked me that question once, in exactly the same tone."

Jack shook his head. "I can't believe it. Harry always said our father was just a nobody, a mistake. He lied to us."

"I doubt anyone would have believed the truth, Jack. It was a unique set of circumstances that your mother and I found ourselves in."

"Did you love her?" Eva asked.

"_Eva_," Jack chided.

She ignored him. "Did you?" The General's eyes bored into her, but they were also Jack's eyes, so she was used to it.

"Yes," he said.

"But not enough to stay with her? With us?"

"It would seem that way, but that was not the entire reality of the situation. I could not have remained with her in her world without repercussions. I asked her to leave with me and she refused. She was adamant her duty was to her cause, to assist your godfather in his mission. I, meanwhile…" he sighed, "I made a mistake."

Jack's chin lifted. "She made the right choice."

The General nodded. His answering smile was tender. "It was her particular talent."

* * *

"I can hear people coming!" Eva informed them.

"The pair of you, come away from the windows," Draco ordered. He waited until they had done so. "Listen to me very carefully. When the wards come down, and believe me, you will _know _when they do, you are to go to the Ministry of Magic in London."

"But we're forbidden to go there."

There was something in the manner Jack replied that gave Draco pause. "I see, but I gather you have…visited anyway?"

"Yes," Eva said, managing to sound sheepish. "We just wanted to see it. Don't tell Harry."

Draco sighed. "You two have as much of a propensity for trouble as your mother did. A pair of fourteen-year old attempting unlicensed Apparation."

"Not attempting, _succeeding_," Eva corrected.

Draco's eyebrow raised. "As I said, you are to go to the Ministry. If I see your godfather after this, I will tell him of your destination."

Jack was wide-eyed. "_You're _in contact with Harry?"

"Harry Potter is the reason I'm here. He received your note and managed to get word to me of your harebrained plan. There was no other way to get to you in this place. Your godfather may very well find you himself when the wards are dismantled. If not, you are to leave without him, is that understood? He is aware of the plan and will expect you to comply."

The twins nodded in unison.

"How will you take the wards down?" Eva asked.

Draco removed his cloak. "By killing the original spell-caster."

Jack narrowed his eyes in speculation. "You're going to kill Voldemort, aren't you?"

"It's been a very long time coming, I assure you. Now, let me have one last look at you." Draco approached the twins, soaking up the sight of them. "Your Muggle grandparents have done a commendable job, but I cannot say much for their discipline or Potter's decision to bring you to England now. Granted, the fault is not entirely yours. If you didn't carry my blood, you would never have been able to access this area. Believe me, many have tried and failed."

"Is this a suicide mission?" It was Eva who asked the question. "That's what you're doing, isn't it?"

Draco very tentatively raised his hand and tucked a fly-away golden curl behind his daughter's ear. When he turned to leave, Eva caught a bit of his robe.

"Did our mother love you back? You have to tell me so…so I know how to remember you."

Their father considered the question at length. "Your mother was a remarkable woman. Enemies though we were, she somehow managed to find enough good in me to love.

Eva opened her mouth to ask something else, but Jack took hold of her hand and gave her a pointed look. That answer would have to be enough.

* * *

The cheering that rang through the Ministry was deafening. In Diagon Alley, people were dancing, drinking, singing and embracing in the street.

It took Harry Potter an excruciating thirty minutes to get to the room where the twins were waiting for him. He was waylaid by well-wishers and the Ministry medical team that poked and prodded at him as he limped his way—slowly, but surely—to his destination.

He had to speak to the twins. Arguably, he had been in many difficult positions in his life, but the idea of the twins finding out about the existence and loss of their father in such a way made his blood run cold. He was worried they would not wish to see him.

But his concerns were groundless, apparently. Jack and Eva hurled themselves into his arms as soon as he got the door open.

"Oh, ouch," he said, wincing and laughing. "Careful, now."

"We're _so_ sorry," Eva said, crying. "We were only meant to be scouting, but the next minute we were _inside _the boundary and oh Harry, there were all these Death Eaters—"

Harry held up a bandaged hand. "It's fine. I was furious when I got the note from that scatty little owl, but when I contacted your father, which I can tell you was something of a minor adventure all ts own, he explained that the wards may very well have admitted entry to you without your realising it. In any case, arguably your escapade has worked out for the best."

Eva blew her nose. "I can't believe it. Voldemort is _dead_."

"The General," Jack asked. "Is he…"

Harry sobered. "Yes, Jack. I'm sorry."

Eva wept quietly into Harry's neck. Jack merely bit his lip and nodded. "He did the right thing in the end. That's something."

"That's _everything_," Harry said. He gathered both children into a tight embrace. "He did what any parent would do for their kids." Harry thought of Hermione, and for the first time in a very long while, the sadness that accompanied his memories lifted. "Your mother would have been proud."


End file.
